


Comme le Soleil

by yet_intrepid



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (Sort of Trilingual but Not Really), Bilingual Keith (Voltron), Bilingual Lance (Voltron), Fluff, M/M, Meet-Cute, Motorcycles, Paris (City), Summer Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-08 02:10:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10375515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yet_intrepid/pseuds/yet_intrepid
Summary: “Are you scared of motorcycles?” the cute guy asks over his shoulder.“Scared of—!” Lance sputters. “No!”In which Keith is a Parisian and Lance is a lost tourist.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Never written Klance before, don't really plan to again, but Bread brought this up and I was like, wait. I gotta.

Lance shifts his backpack off his shoulders and slumps on the sidewalk against the outer wall of a McDonalds. It isn’t the quintessential Paris experience, that’s for sure, but he’s been lost for four hours now, his feet hurt, and he’s able to leech off wifi here so he can message Hunk.

_Damn it, buddy, get online_ , he thinks, pulling down to refresh Facebook messenger for probably the twenty-seventh time since he got signal. This whole day has been terrible, honestly. They got in from Caen, where they’d been in summer language school, at eleven that morning, and Lance was planning to go straight to their hostel. Hunk and Pidge were determined to go see some museum first, though, so they’d decided to split up.

“What could _possibly_ go wrong?” Lance mutters to himself, as he checks google maps and tries to figure out where the hell he is in relation to where he’s going. With his luck, he probably turned north instead of south two hours ago. And God, the way he’s panicking probably makes him sound like Hunk, but this is legit, all right, he’s on the wrong side of the entire ocean, all by himself, no idea how to find his friends or the place he’s supposed to stay tonight. It’s totally cause for feeling like Hunk.

He types into their group message again, all caps this time. Then, crossing his fingers that one of them will be on wifi soon, he lets his head fall back against the wall with a thunk.

“Uh, are you okay?”

Lance’s head snaps back up. Somebody, thank God, is speaking English to him. Lance can get along in French, but his ability to process is dead along with his feet, and he can feel his mouth drop open in relief.

And the someone speaking English is _cute_ , too. He looks like he’s East Asian, about Lance’s age, and he’s got a stupid haircut, that’s for sure, but he’s also got a face with perfect angles and adorable eyebrows quirked in confusion. He’s wearing one of those stupid v-necks and Lance is done. Dead. Staring. Not even a pick-up line.

“Uh,” says the cute guy, in his cute French accent. “Are you lost?”

“Yeah,” says Lance, finally recovering his voice. _Lost in your eyes._ “Really lost! My friends left me because they wanted to go to this museum and I was gonna go to our hostel but I got. Yeah. Lost.” He waves his hands a little desperately. “It’s been like five hours? I think I’m in the right _quartier_ or whatever the hell you call it but I don’t even know that for sure because I might have turned the wrong direction because maps are not, _not_ my friends and yeah. So yeah. I’m lost.”

“Where are you trying to go?” the cute guy asks. God. Lance is dead. Hunk is not going to believe this.

“Uhh,” he says in turn, trying to remember the address and get his tongue around how to pronounce it in a way that won’t be embarrassing. In the end he just gets up off the sidewalk, holding out his dying phone with the marker dropped on google maps. “Here?”

The cute guy lifts his eyebrows even further, then seems to shove them back down towards their normal spot. “Oh, okay. I know where that is.”

“Really?” Lance breathes. “Do you think you could—uh, point me? Like in the right direction? Or something? Is it far?”

The guy hits the route button on Lance’s phone, then eyes the distance that pops up. “Uh, yeah. Kind of far.” He seems to consider for a moment, then sighs. “Come with me.”

“Are you serious?” Lance says. “You don’t—you don’t have to!”

“Come with me,” the guy repeats, starting off in the direction Lance came from. “I can take you there.”

Lance grabs his backpack, then hurries to catch up.

“Are you scared of motorcycles?” the cute guy asks over his shoulder.

“Scared of—!” Lance sputters. “No!”

“Good.”

Lance is having distinct trouble playing it cool. “What do you mean, good?”

“It’s too far to walk,” the guy says. “I have an extra helmet.”

“Hold on,” says Lance. “Like. Really. Hold the phone. I’m not getting on a motorcycle with you when I don’t even know your name.”

The guy rolls his eyes, but stops next to a classy-looking motorcycle and holds out a hand. “Keith,” he says.

“Lance,” says Lance. He shakes Keith’s hand, which is covered with a biking glove. Lance is grateful, because that way Keith can’t feel Lance’s sweaty palms.

God, and now he’s going to ride on a motorcycle behind Keith? Which involves like, bodies pressed together?

He’s so, so dead.

Keith passes him a helmet and Lance fumbles to settle it on. Then they’re on the motorcycle, and Keith says, “hold on,” and before Lance can even take a settling breath they’re pulling out of the tiny parking space to speed through the Latin Quarter.

“I drive fast!” Keith yells over the engine and the wind. “Don’t panic, okay?”

“Not panicking!” Lance yells back, as Keith weaves between lanes of traffic and turns left. It’s like he’d always imagined it’d be to be Superman, or maybe Lois Lane instead since he’s not actually the one in control. He’s just clinging, his arms around Keith’s waist, flying past the old buildings with their balconies like they’re just any old apartment block or school. And maybe they are to Keith, but not to Lance. This is Paris, God, he’s in Paris and he’s hugging a Parisian boy on a motorcycle, wild and independent and free.

\----

The person working at the desk at the hostel speaks English too, thankfully, because when Lance tries to greet her in French he comes out with a whole three sentences of Spanish instead and blushes fiercely, especially because Keith is still there, standing at the door to the hostel with his helmet shoved under one arm and his other hand in his pocket. He looks almost shy, Lance thinks, when he sneaks a glance in between confirming things with the person at the desk.

After everything’s sorted out, Lance takes the key and turns back to Keith. “Hey, man, thanks,” he says, offering his hand to shake again. It feels a little too formal, but Keith doesn’t seem like the type for a high five and a hug, and he certainly—get it _together_ , Lance—he certainly doesn’t want what Lance really wants, which is to make out right there in the lobby.

Keith takes his hand slowly. Shakes it. Drops it. “No problem,” he says, a tiny smile curving at the corner of his mouth, and then repeats, “ _Pas de problème_. That’s what we say in French.”

“Yeah,” Lance says, dazed. “I know. I mean. I do know a little bit of French, like, I know I don’t seem like it but I did do a language program, I’m just not very fast in an actual conversation, you know? I’m not just like—running all over your country assuming everyone’s gonna speak English to me. Even if it’s nice when you do. Uh. Yeah.”

Keith shrugs. “We learn English in school.”

“I don’t wanna be a rude tourist!” Lance bursts out. “Like, everyone says Americans are such assholes and it’s _true_ and I don’t wanna be the asshole, Keith, you know? You’re being so nice and I don’t wanna be rude back.”

Keith looks at him, then away. “Uh,” he says, looking shy and so fricking cute and God, Lance just wants to run his hands through that stupid hair. “You said you have friends you’re traveling with, right? Are they expecting to find you here?”

Lance shrugs. “Sorta? I can update them online—which I should do, should let them know I’m not lost anymore. Why?”

“I just wondered,” Keith says. His gaze flicks up to Lance’s eyes again. “Do you want to get some food?”

“Uh, yes?” Lance says. His legs are wobbly; he can’t tell if his voice is shaking, but he’s willing to bet it is. “Uh. Lemme put my backpack in my room and message my friends first? And then I’ll be right out.”

“Okay,” says Keith. That tiny smile shows up again and Lance is really, truly dead. He runs up the stairs, finds the room he’s sharing with Hunk and Pidge, connects to the hostel wifi, and messages them one long _AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH_ before he gets to typing out the best quick explanation he can.

That done, he drops his backpack, takes three deep breaths, and runs back down the stairs to grin at Keith, who’s still, miraculously, there, standing by the door.

“Where are we going?” he asks, as Keith leads the way back out.

Keith stows his helmet on his motorcycle. “There’s a galette place down the street. You know galettes?”

“Yeah!” says Lance. “Like crêpes, right? But like, meal food.”

Keith nods. “I used to come by this place on my way home from school. Now I go to university in Caen. That’s, uh, in Normandie?”

“Do you miss Paris?” Lance asks, as they head down the sidewalk together. There’s music playing somewhere nearby, people laughing, and Lance feels like it’s magic, like he’d never leave if given the choice. “When you’re at school, uh, university I mean. I know I miss home a lot when I’m in the dorms.”

“I miss my brother,” Keith says. “And yeah, Paris sometimes. But Caen is smaller and I like, I like—” he shrugs, then switches a little helplessly into French. “Comment c’est ouvert, comment il y a plus d’espace, c’est comme…” _How it’s open, how there’s more space, it’s like…_

 “C’est comme,” Lance says, and somehow the words are there for him, “on peut s’écouter.” _It’s like you can listen to yourself._

“Ouais,” Keith says, and then, “yeah.” He turns left, Lance following after him, and stops in front of a storefront with a window that opens to the street.

The person in the window greets them so fast that all Lance can catch is _bonjour_ , and he stares, a little intimidated, at the menu board, as Keith steps up to the window.

“T’es végéterien?” he asks Lance.

Lance blinks a second, still dumbfounded, then processes. Vegetarian. “Non,” he manages.

“Cool,” says Keith, like it’s a French word, then rattles off a string of sentences to the person in the window, who responds even faster than he did when he was initially greeting them. Before Lance’s brain can catch up, Keith has paid and is taking four paper-wrapped cones from the employee, thanking him and holding out two of them to Lance with a smile.

“Uh,” says Lance, sputtering again. “I can pay you back!”

“No,” says Keith, “no, I want to.”

“But—”

“I want to,” Keith repeats, and he looks so earnest and so soft and Lance just melts, his face dissolving into a grin.

“Merci,” he says. “Merci, Keith. Thanks so, so much.”

“Pas de problème,” says Keith, and Lance is keenly aware that they’re very close—not as close as they were on the motorcycle but still close, their fingers brushing as Keith presses the two paper cones into Lance’s hands.

They make a quick stop for a bottle of cheap wine, too, which Keith also insists on paying for, and then end up on the steps of the Panthéon, finishing up their ham and cheese galettes before moving on to the nutella crêpes.

“Mmm, this is good,” Lance hums appreciatively as he licks nutella off his thumb. Keith is busy pulling the cork out of the wine bottle. “I’d eat so many of these if I lived around here.”

“Yeah, I used to,” Keith says. The cork pops out. “Uh, I forgot cups. You mind sharing?”

“Nah,” says Lance, and is rewarded with another of Keith’s elusive smiles.

Keith tips back back the bottle for a moment, eyes closed, then swallows and hands it over to Lance. Their fingers touch again; Lance can feel himself blushing.

“Wait,” says Keith, before Lance can take the bottle. “You have—here.”

He reaches towards Lance’s face with a hesitant thumb, catching a bit of Nutella and holding it up. “There,” he says, and moves to wipe it on his jeans.

“Don’t waste it,” says Lance.

“Oh,” says Keith. “You want it?”

“Hell yeah,” says Lance, but he doesn’t feel very certain at all. Keith’s thumb was so soft on his cheek—when did he take his gloves off, Lance wonders—and wow, mouths, that’s even closer than motorcycle hugging.

But Keith peers up at him through dark lashes, and what the hell, Lance thinks.

He leans in. Keith brings his thumb up; Lance swirls his tongue lightly over it, tasting nutella and feeling just the tip of Keith’s broken fingernail.

Their eyes meet as he lifts his head away, and then they both move at once, scrambling a little apart, almost dropping the wine bottle in the awkwardness of it all. Lance ends up with it, and he’s grateful, just so he has something to do with his hands and his mouth. Something to wash away his ache to touch Keith again.

“Sorry,” Keith says, when Lance lowers the bottle after a long moment. “That was….weird. I didn’t meant to make it weird for you.”

“I didn’t mean to make it weird for _you_ ,” Lance mutters back.

Keith holds out his hand, asking for the wine. Lance passes it over. But as he does, Keith moves closer again, catches the bottle, sets it aside.

Lance stares. They’re holding hands.

“Is this okay?” Keith asks.

“Hell yeah,” Lance breathes.

They’re quiet together for a moment. The sun is starting to set and Lance is just blown away by all of it, the calluses on Keith’s palm, the rosy-orange light. He wants to say something special and yet, at the same time, he doesn’t want to say anything at all.

Keith takes a sip from the bottle again, passes it back to Lance. It’s really gross wine and Lance doesn’t care. Keith bought it. That makes it beautiful.

“T’es bien joli,” Keith murmurs, shy, brushing his thumb over Lance’s knuckle. _You’re pretty cute_.

“Tu es,” Lance says back, stumbling, “tu es—Keith—”

“C’est quoi que je suis?” _What am I?_

“Magnifique!” Lance bursts out. “Comme—comme le soleil!” He gestures wildly at the setting sun, his hand pulling out of Keith’s. Magnificent like the sun, and it’s true even though he doesn’t know why the hell something so embarrassing would come out of his mouth.

“Really?” Keith asks, after a moment. His hands have retreated to his lap, fidgeting anxiously there. “You think so?”

“Yeah?” Lance buries his face in his hands. “Sorry, man, yeah, I think you’re really cool. I know I’m just some weird tourist but the second I saw you I was even more lost than before, like, I was crushing so hard. You’ve got a stupid haircut and you ride a motorcycle and you went out of your way to be nice to me and just—yeah, man. Magnificent like the sun. I’m gonna stand by it.”

Keith looks up from his lap. When their eyes meet, Lance feels his whole body trembling.

“You aren’t just a weird tourist,” Keith says. “I mean, I don’t know you very well, but I like you. I don’t like a lot of people but you, you’re brave. And you seem like you really care about being good to people, and—you’ve heard _joie de vivre_?” Lance nods, so Keith goes on. “It’s hard for me to be excited about things sometimes. I like that you are.”

Lance holds out his hand again and Keith takes it, gripping hard.

“Toi aussi,” Keith says, quietly. “Tu es comme le soleil aussi.” _You’re like the sun, too._

Lance lifts their interlaced fingers, looking at them, marveling, and somehow they’re drawing close to one another again and Keith’s other hand is on the back of Lance’s head, impossibly gentle. Lance mirrors him, drawing his fingers through that stupid beautiful hair as they kiss, strange and sweet and slow.


End file.
